Candy Shop Mystery - Goody Goody Gunshots Part 2

Karen laughed and pulled the key from its hook beneath the register. "Jawarski doesn't have to do anything, Abby," she said as she headed for the front door. "By the way, how did your evening with the boys go last night?"

Reluctantly, I abandoned the shooting, real or imagined, and moved on. "It was fine. Brody scored eight points, and Caleb actually pulled down a rebound. The whole team did well, as a matter of fact. They seem to like their coach."

"Really?" She looked surprised. "Didn't you say that Kerry Hendrix is coaching their team?"

I boxed up another piece of cake. "Yeah, why?"

"You probably don't remember him, do you?"

I shook my head. "He can't be more than thirty, can he? I think he was about ten when I left town, and I didn't pay a whole lot of attention to kids when I was eighteen and full of myself. Why, is something wrong with him?"

Karen laughed and returned the key to its hook. "I wouldn't say there's anything wrong. It's just that he seems a bit . . . intense to be coaching kids that young."

"He's kind of a control freak," I agreed, "but like I said, the kids seemed to like him."

"Well, that's good then." Karen tossed a smile at me and hurried off to the supply cupboard.

When she came back, I said, "Brody and Caleb asked if I would help with the team all season, but I don't know . . . I don't remember enough about the game, and I'm not exactly what you'd call athletic anymore."

Karen didn't even look surprised. "I heard that they need another adult on the roster, or the team will fold."

"That's what the boys said, but I don't think I'm the solution they're looking for." Now that I'd said that aloud, I knew how right I was. "Somebody else will step in, and I'll catch their games when I can."

Karen straightened several boxes on a shelf of one-pound Divinity cream-filled chocolates, but I couldn't help noticing that she was taking care not to look at me. "Don't you think the boys'll be disappointed?" she asked casually.

The image of Brody's face flashed through my head, but I ignored it. I'd find another way to bond with them- something that would actually work in my world. "They'll be more disappointed if I say yes. I don't remember enough about basketball to be an effective coach."

"You know enough," Karen said mildly. "It's really not about you and your skill level, it's about the boys."

"I don't know," I said hesitantly.

Karen finally made eye contact. "What's not to know, Abby? It's a Youth League team, not college ball. Who cares if you're not the greatest basketball player in town?"

I laughed, but I wasn't amused. "You need to work on your powers of persuasion," I said. "Even if I was interested, which I'm not, I'd just be window dressing. I'd probably end up embarra.s.sing the boys."

Karen propped her hands on her hips, a sure sign that she was getting angry. "They asked you, didn't they? How often do you think kids actually ask an adult to step into their world? Do you have any idea how lucky you are? You should be grabbing this opportunity and running with it."

She had me there. Groaning, I slipped another piece of cake into its box and tucked in the flaps to hold it shut. "I know you're right, but you're forgetting one tiny thing: I don't have the time. If I were to agree, I'd be gone three or four evenings out of every seven. I can't be away from the store that much. You already have more than enough to do."

Karen stopped long enough to take a sip of coffee. "You could be if we were more organized." She lifted the cup again and mumbled something behind it I couldn't understand.

"What?"

She lowered the cup slowly. "I said, you could be gone more if we had some help around here."

I stopped working and stared at her. We'd had this discussion a dozen times in the past few months, and we never seemed to get anywhere with it. "I thought we'd agreed to wait."

"You agreed to wait," Karen said, locking eyes with me and gearing up for a fight. "I've never been convinced we should."

"Aren't you missing something?" I asked. "If we hire somebody because I'm gone, we aren't ahead. We're just paying more money for the same amount of work."

"It doesn't have to be that way," Karen said stubbornly. "If you focus on making the candy and let me hire somebody to help me with the sales floor, you could get everything done that you need to and still have time to spend with the boys."

"That sounds good in theory," I said grudgingly, "but there are just too many factors to consider."

Color crept into Karen's cheeks, more proof that she was becoming agitated. "Just how many chances do you think you're going to get with your family, Abby?"

"Excuse me?"

She stalked back to the supply cupboard, opened it, and slammed it shut without taking anything out. "I don't mean to be rude, but you lived away from here for most of those kids' lives. They hardly know you. Right now, all four of them want you to be part of their lives, but you can't keep turning your back on them or they won't want you anymore."

The air left my lungs in a whoosh, and resentment coiled up my spine. I desperately wanted to find some moral high ground, a place where I could look down on her and ask how she dared to say something so hurtful. Trouble was, I knew she was right. I didn't want to know it, but I did.

I'd left Paradise for college, met and married my husband while I was away, and spent the next twenty years living a life that had very little to do with the Hanks and the Shaws of Paradise, Colorado-and absolutely nothing to do with Divinity. I'd been as shocked as anyone when the lawyers read Aunt Grace's will, but I was determined to show the world she hadn't been wrong to put her faith in me.

I picked up a piece of cake and tried to get it into its box, but I ended up jamming my thumb into it instead. Frustrated, I tossed it into the trash can. "Fine," I snarled. "Have it your way. I suppose you still feel the same way about who we should hire?"

To give her credit, Karen tried not to gloat about my change of heart. "I know some of the cousins have been a pain in your side since you came back, but I think hiring one of them makes the most sense. They're familiar with the business, and hiring outside the family will just make a lot of people angry."

I might have been ready to capitulate on the subject of my nephews, but the cousins were another matter entirely. I'd had nothing but trouble from my cousin Bea since I came back to Paradise, and there were others just waiting for me to screw up and prove that Aunt Grace should never have left Divinity to me.

I packed away the last slice of cake and carried the boxes to the end of the counter. "No matter what I do, I make the cousins angry. I'm not going to make business decisions based on their moods."

"Divinity is a family business."

"Divinity is my business," I reminded her. "Aunt Grace didn't leave it to all the cousins. She didn't set up some committee to run the show and make the decisions. And every time I let one of them in, it's trouble for me."

"The only two you've let in are Bea and me," Karen retorted. "You have a fifty percent success rate."

"And if I do hire one of the cousins, and it doesn't work out? How easy will it be for me to let her go? You think that won't cause bad feelings in the family?"

"Then what about Dana and Danielle? They're probably wanting to pick up some extra cash, and they'd be cheap labor."

I shook my head firmly. "They're both tied up with too many extracurricular activities. Wyatt and Elizabeth want them to spend whatever free time they have studying. No, if I'm going to hire someone to work for me, I want it to be someone who . . . oh, I don't know . . . someone who acknowledges that I'm the boss and that I have the right to make decisions around here. I want someone who won't challenge me on every decision I do make."

"Then let me talk to Stephanie. She used to work here on weekends a few years ago. I know she'd be exactly what you want."

Of the whole, unreasonable bunch, my cousin Stephanie might actually have worked out all right, except for one thing. "I saw her a couple of days ago at the market. I guess you haven't heard that she's pregnant again?"

Karen's mouth fell open. "Stephanie is? But she's-"

"At least forty-two," I finished when words failed her. "Apparently the baby is as big a surprise to Stephanie and Kevin as it is to you. She's not having an easy time of it. I don't think she's a candidate."

"Hire Roz, then."

"Roz has decided that she's going to make her fortune selling Mary Kay. She predicts that she'll be driving a pink Cadillac around Paradise in two years."

Karen's brow furrowed in concentration. "Those would have been my top two choices, but give me a minute to think."

"This is exactly what I'm talking about, Karen. You just can't see it. If you worked for anyone else, you wouldn't push like this to get one of your relatives hired."

"They're your relatives, too."

All the more reason to keep them at arm's length when it came to business. "I'm not hiring from within the family," I said firmly. "End of discussion. You've convinced me to spend time with the boys; be happy with that. I'll put an ad in the paper tomorrow. Do you want to take care of interviewing the applicants, or should I?"

Thankfully, Karen recognized the olive branch I'd extended. She might not be happy with my decision, but she gave up the fight as the bell over the door tinkled to signal our first customer. "I'll do it. G.o.d only knows what kind of 'help' you'd stick me with."

I grinned as she slipped out from behind the counter to greet Pearl Whitfield, one of our oldest and most loyal customers. And I wondered again what I'd do without her. I just hoped I'd never have to find out.

Chapter 5.

I spent the rest of the morning telling myself that it wouldn't do any good to keep rehashing the episode at Hammond Junction, and trying to keep busy in the kitchen. I pulled my favorite of Aunt Grace's saucepans from the overhead rack, then measured sugar, corn syrup, and vinegar into the pan and set the mixture over a low flame. When the sugar dissolved, I turned up the flame and hooked a candy thermometer to the pan. The temperature climbed steadily while I scrubbed down the granite counter, b.u.t.tered a cookie sheet, and dug my kitchen shears from the drawer.

The thermometer finally reached 245 degrees, and I quickly stirred in b.u.t.ter and mola.s.ses. The heat in the kitchen had climbed, but even that didn't dispel the pleasure I found in the rich scent that filled the entire shop as the flavors came together. I left the candy on the flame, watching and stirring every few minutes, until it finally reached the hard-ball stage, then carried it to the workbench and poured the molten mixture into the pan I'd prepared earlier.

Every few minutes, Karen poked her head into the kitchen and made appreciative sounds-a habit of hers I find increasingly endearing. When you cook for a living, it's nice to know that someone is eagerly awaiting the results of your efforts. When I thought about how excited about candy we'd been as kids-and how many of us cousins there were-I decided Aunt Grace must have been on an emotional high most of the time.

I managed not to think about the previous night's encounter while I was actually cooking, but as soon as the mixture cooled enough to touch, my brain clicked into gear again while my fingers did the work. Hands b.u.t.tered, I pulled and folded again and again, working air into the mixture so that the texture slowly changed, and the color morphed from mola.s.ses brown to a light, creamy tan.

With each pull, I went over another aspect of the near accident and shooting. Karen might be right about the limping man and his "a.s.sailant" working together, but the terror on his face had seemed so real. Was he just a good actor, or had he really been afraid? If so, what had he been afraid of? My car hurtling toward him or something else?

Karen left for lunch about the time I began snipping the thick rope of mola.s.ses candy into bite-sized pieces. I'd just finished wrapping the last piece in Divinity's distinctive gold-edged candy wrappers when she returned. By that time, I'd not only made myself tired of thinking, I'd also decided that I had to go back to Hammond Junction and see what I could find in the daylight.

I probably should have told Karen what I was planning, but I talked myself out of it by reasoning that it was daylight, and I'd have Max with me. Instead, I told her that I was going out to pick up a few supplies; then I tossed my ap.r.o.n over the back of a chair and hustled out of the shop.

Max was delighted to be let off his chain so early in the day, so I knew he wouldn't tell on me. Ten minutes later, we drove out of town on Motherlode Street, destination: Hammond Junction.

For years, the people who lived and worked in this part of the valley had come and gone without getting in each others' way. Everyone knew where Lloyd Casey was going to turn. Didn't matter if he was heading out to the pasture to check on his cattle or driving home at the end of the day. He didn't have to use his turn signal to alert us. And if he had a load of hay on, we all knew to go out around him. We just waited for the quick flash of his hand out his open window to tell us when.

Everyone knew that Marion Escott slowed to a crawl every time she approached someone's driveway because, as she was fond of reminding us, you just never knew. But bring in the tourists, who didn't know where the locals were going, and furthermore, didn't care, and suddenly the junction became a hazard.

The junction seemed far less sinister in the clear light of day than it had the night before, but I was still glad I'd brought Max with me. I drove through the light slowly, eyes peeled for flashes of anything unusual. After about a hundred feet, I made a U-turn, doubled back, and repeated the exercise going in the opposite direction. When I decided I'd never see anything from the car, I parked, hooked Max to his leash, and set out on foot.

I led Max to the intersection and let him sniff around for several minutes, hoping he'd reveal himself to be part blood-hound. He found plenty to interest him-everything from discarded gum wrappers to empty beer bottles-but nothing that looked like it might explain what had happened here the night before.

We checked the road in all four directions, both sides of the highway, but I still didn't find anything unusual. Even though a light autumn breeze rustled the leaves of the trees every now and then, sweat beaded on my nose and trickled down my back. The dry scent of dust, dormant through the long, hot summer we'd been through, tickled my nose so that when I wasn't wiping sweat from my forehead with my sleeve, I was fighting the effects of hay fever.

While I stomped up and down the road, sneezing and wiping my eyes, three cars inched up to the stoplight, then roared on past. I recognized Marion Escott, now well into her eighties and slower behind the wheel than she'd ever been, and Hank Weatherby, who'd been running cattle in the hills west of the junction for most of my life. The third vehicle-an SUV-was there and gone before I got a good look at it.

I searched thoroughly for more than an hour, then reluctantly admitted there wasn't anything to find. I still didn't know what had happened out there, but at least I knew for sure that I hadn't left a man bleeding to death. There was some consolation in that, I suppose.

Chapter 6.

Now that I knew I hadn't witnessed a shooting, the anger that had been simmering all morning boiled to the surface. I wanted to know what had happened. Exactly. Had the whole thing been a setup?

After herding Max into the Jetta, I pulled up to the intersection once more and considered my options while I sat there, the only car in sight. It took a few minutes, but I finally registered the fact that if I could see Marion Escott's redbrick rambler from where I sat, she could see the intersection from there.

It was a long shot, but I turned right toward Marion's house anyway. Out here in the country, the shoulders on the highways were narrow to nonexistent, so I pulled into the driveway, taking care not to block her car. I poured water from a bottle into my emergency dog bowl (I keep both in the hatch at all times) and settled Max in the shade of a tree.

Marion opened the door while I was promising Max that I wouldn't be gone long and gave me a benevolent smile. "I heard rumors about you and that dog. Guess they were true."

She stood around five two, five three at most-a tiny woman who had once seemed much larger to me than she did now. A halo of white hair wreathed her elfin face, and her pale blue eyes gleamed with intelligence.

"Yeah," I said with a grin, "the rumors are true. I've given up men and gone to the dogs."

Chuckling, Marion stepped aside to let me enter. As I pa.s.sed through to the cool indoors, she fixed me with a solid look that almost pinned me to the wall. "Well, now, Abigail, that's not the only rumor I hear about you. I have it on good authority that you've been seen around town in the company of a certain policeman."

Without waiting for me to respond, she led me into the living room, where I discovered that Marion wasn't the only thing that hadn't changed since I'd been here last. I swear the same crushed velvet sofa still sat in front of the long bay window, the same rocking chairs flanked the fireplace, the same pictures hung on the walls. Marion waved me toward one of the rocking chairs and settled herself in the other.

As she set the chair in motion, a bulky shadow moved in the hallway and startled me. A figure stepped into the light, and somehow, in the bulky, whiskered, potbellied man wearing a too-tight T-shirt and holey jeans I recognized Dwayne, Marion's youngest grandson.

I hadn't seen him since he was a kid heading toward p.u.b.erty, all arms and legs and growing like a weed. I tried not to show my shock at the changes in him, but I'm not sure I succeeded.

He jerked his head at me, and I jerked mine back. I expected him to disappear once he'd satisfied his social obligations, but to my surprise, he dragged a chair from the kitchen into the hallway and straddled it so he could hear our conversation.

"So, tell me," Marion said, the rhythm of her chair uninterrupted, "What's going on with you and your policeman? Are things getting serious?"

Jawarski was way down on the list of things I wanted to talk about with Marion, but her expression was filled with such eagerness, I didn't have the heart to evade the question. "He's not my policeman," I said. "And no, things aren't exactly serious. We're friends."

"Friends." Marion leaned back in her chair and snorted softly. "Sounds like an excuse to me, girl, but have it your way. Suppose you tell me instead what brings you clear out here in the middle of the day?"

I tried hard to ignore Dwayne hulking in the hallway and to concentrate on Marion instead. Forcing a laugh, I said, "I take it you don't want to mess around with small talk?"

Marion wagged a hand in front of her face. "I'm too old to mess around with conversation that doesn't mean anything. Now, what can I do for you? I don't suppose you have any of Divinity's caramels in the car with you. I'd just about sell my soul for a box of those."

I laughed again and shook my head. "Sorry, no." I thought Dwayne might offer to pick up a box for his grandmother, but he kept his big old mouth shut tight, so I said, "Tell you what. I can bring you a box next time I'm out this way."

"Well, don't go out of your way. I don't want to be a burden. Now, what's on your mind?"

"I'm wondering if you were home last night."

"Me?" Marion leaned her head against the back of her rocker. "Well, sure. I'm here most of the time, aren't I, Dwayne?" She turned her bird head in his direction, and he muttered something that sounded like he agreed with her. Satisfied, Marion turned back to me. "You see? Why do you ask?"